Correspondence
by Chaotic Century
Summary: News of what had befallen the Flyheight family spread far and wide, but not far enough. There was one left who didn't know, who desperately needed to be told. A short side project to the Earthling trilogy set after "Heavensward"; Battle Story/Chaotic Century timeline.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** This story is a companion piece to the Earthling trilogy, and is set in that continuity, a short time after the events of "Heavensward." It is strongly recommended to read the trilogy first in order to understand the context here.

Furthermore, there are three other side projects to the trilogy in progress currently, because I can't seem to stay away from these characters, who long ago began feeling like friends to me. My muse for them comes and goes, but I'm doing my best.

I hope you enjoy reading. Reviews and constructive criticism are always welcomed.

 **DEDICATION  
** _For Casey  
In gratitude for the brief but wonderful light you cast into my darkness_

* * *

 **ZAC 2082  
** _ **Chapter 1**_

There was a knock at the door.

Dan Flyheight was leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed over his chest, facing his desk across the dim room and staring uncomprehendingly at it. It was a small desk, assembled from the hardy, dark-stained wood for which the Wind Colony's scarce but dense forests were rapidly becoming famous. It was a simple enough design, with little in the way of adornment, and was much like one his parents had once owned. He had spent many a contented hour seated at it over the last twenty some-odd years, drafting correspondence to friends, and the friends he considered family, who were flung far and wide across Europa.

Now, that desk was silent evidence of a world passing him by, piled high as it was with bills, notices, and paperwork dealing with such matters as benefits and pensions and cremations. There were, too, veritable mountains of greeting cards, consisting of a most unusual mix of congratulations and condolences. Even as he remained ensconced in this little adobe cottage, too overwhelmed to work or leave or even speak very much, life and time somehow marched onward. The few instances he contemplated this fact, it seemed amazing to him: how could anyone even continue to live, with her perfect starlight now extinguished?

He sighed heavily and ran his hand over his mouth, not noticing the several days' worth of stubble pricking at his fingers. There were so many pressing things to be addressed, endless matters to be taken care of sitting on top of that desk, but one task in particular was the one he dreaded the most. There was one card missing from the messy pile, he knew, one correspondent who had not written to express his condolences, because nobody had yet told him that Willow had died.

The knocking came again, rather more loudly this time. Dan, who had been so lost in his usual fog of grief that he genuinely had not heard the first one, looked up at the abrupt sound.

Maria padded silently into the room just then. Her feet were bare on the dusty tiles, and in one hand she held the blanket she always slept with. One ragged corner dragged on the floor. At eight, she was probably too old to still have such childish habits, but there was no one about to make her give them up.

In spite of the knocking, Van still seemed to be asleep in the other room. They all did a lot of sleeping, nowadays.

Maria yawned and regarded her father with those enormous brown eyes of hers. Willow's eyes. He still could hardly bear to look into them, even a month later. "Are you going to answer the door, Daddy?" she asked in her hushed voice.

Dan at last shifted from his post, at which he had been standing, without realizing it, for well over an hour as he had dazedly contemplated the piles atop his desk. "Of course, Maria," he said, his voice weak from lack of use. "Of course."

He stepped across the room to the front door and opened it, just as another round of knocks began. Light from outside flooded in. "Dan," the caller said, startled. It was Leon.

Dan regarded his best friend unseeingly for a moment, then seemed to come back to himself. "Leon," he said. Remembering his manners, he stepped back. "Come in."

Leon entered and stood awkwardly in the center of the main room holding his hat, then spotted Maria, still standing mutely in the doorway to her bedroom. "Hello there, Maria," he greeted her kindly in gentle tones as he walked over and crouched down in front of her. "How are you doing today?"

"I'm sleepy," she admitted, rubbing her eyes and yawning again. "Van cries a lot. And so does Daddy."

There was a pause, and then Leon rubbed at his eyes now, too, although for a different reason. "There are a lot of things you've had to adjust to," he told her, giving her petite shoulder a little squeeze. "You're doing a wonderful job taking care of your father. Just make sure you take care of yourself, too, alright?"

She nodded gravely at him, and he stood, turning back to Dan, who hadn't moved from the doorway. "Dan," he said. "Please let me help."

"Help?" Dan echoed, looking out the door and to the front yard as though expecting other visitors in addition to Leon. He seemed bewildered.

Leon looked around the dim room, taking in the drawn curtains, the disorganization, the slowly accumulating filth. His eyes alighted on the desk, with its teetering piles. "You're overwhelmed, Dan. This is so much for one person. I'll do whatever you need me to - help with the paperwork, take the kids out for awhile so you can get some things done..." He trailed off. Dan had turned and was looking at him, but there was little comprehension in his gaze. Those dark eyes seemed to be looking past Leon entirely, to something over his shoulder that only Dan could see. Then, they focused on him suddenly.

"I don't want to write that letter," Dan said emphatically, a small shudder punctuating the statement. "Please. I can't write that letter."

Leon went back across the room, took Dan's arm, and guided him over to the couch, upon which they both sat down. "I'll help you," Leon said. The pale winter light from beyond the front door reflected on the round lenses of his glasses. "You don't have to do it alone. And you don't have to do it right now. But...I do think you should do it as soon as possible. You would want to know, if it were you."

Dan nodded, staring miserably at the floor. "But...but writing it...it just feels...so final..." He swallowed hard, unable to finish the sentence.

"I know," Leon said softly, placing his hand on his friend's forearm. His heart was breaking. "I know."

A happy gurgling sound came from Dan's darkened bedroom just then; Van had awoken from his nap. Dan looked up, momentarily paralyzed with confusion. He made to rise, but Maria, who had remained in her doorway these last few minutes, simply blinked her enormous brown eyes and stepped into the shadows of her father's room, from whence her soft crooning to her brother could soon be heard.

Leon had watched this small tableau, and now turned to his friend. "We're all praying for you, Dan."

Dan exhaled, seeming to come to a decision. "Could you...could you please get me pen and paper?" he asked shakily. He swiped at his eyes. "Because you're right. He deserves to know. And avoiding this isn't going to change anything."

"Good man," Leon murmured. He stood and moved to the desk. Amid the piles, he retrieved the needed items, and brought them over, placing the pen in Dan's quaking palm. Noting this, he asked, "Would you like to tell me what you want it to say, and I'll write it out for you?"

Dan nodded, returning the pen. It was impossible to stop the tremors in his hands. He straightened his throat a few times, and when he finally trusted his voice to remain steady, he began, "Private Standhaft. Socracht, Southern Elemia Territories, Helic Republic." He took a deep breath. "Dear Phoenix..."

-.-.-.-

Phoenix waved cheerfully as Heinrich set off down the long dirt driveway, on his way home to his family after a hard day's work. The sun was a molten gold puddle at the end of the rows of apple trees nearest the farmhouse and Phoenix gazed at it for a moment, then swiped the back of his hand across his sweaty forehead, grinning to himself. The animals were happy, the countless trees and bushes and plants were healthy. Life was good.

"Red!" a voice called. Only his wife addressed him so; upon first meeting him many years prior, she had been so entranced with his red facial marking, ginger hair, and propensity for severe blushing that after a time she had begun using the pet name "red heart," which had shortened over time to simply "red." He turned, looking up to the farmhouse. Áthas was at the back door, waving to him. She had something in her hand. "A letter!" she added, holding it up.

Letters were not an especially common occurrence, unless one counted bills and other such uninteresting financial or legal matters. He jogged the few hundred feet to the back deck and delicately took the envelope from her. "Why thank you, my sweet," he said, brushing her blonde locks back over her shoulder and kissing her on her round cheek.

"It's from the Wind Colony," she informed him with a knowing smile. There had been a time, once, long ago, when Áthas had harbored feelings of jealousy towards her partner's unique relationship with that strange and beautiful woman named Willow. But such petty emotions had swiftly subsided when she was told the stories of how Willow's courage and caring had saved Phoenix's life, and on more than one occasion, as well. That her husband was deeply bonded with Willow was a fact to which Áthas had simply grown accustomed, and she had troubled herself no more about it. For at her core, Áthas was a fair-minded woman, and a trusting one. Phoenix was a person worthy of her trust; and on the rare occasions she had spent time with Willow over these last many years, she had learned that Willow was, too.

"So much the better," Phoenix replied now, his grin widening. Áthas smirked at him and gave him an affectionate smack on the rump as he set off back towards the fields, heading, she guessed, towards his favorite bench to read.

This was indeed his plan, and he settled comfortably upon it, a lemon tree's boughs, laden with ripening fruit, extending resplendently overhead. A lone bee, drunk with the lemons' fresh scent, drifted lazily by, on her way back to her hive for the night. It had been several years since Phoenix had last seen Willow, a fact which he regretted. Sometimes life just seemed to get in the way, and it was all too easy to allow one's priorities to fall by the wayside. Perhaps she had written in hopes of arranging another visit, a possibility that filled him with joy.

Phoenix noted immediately that the handwriting on the envelope was not Willow's. However, a glance at the name atop the return address read "Flyheight," and so he shrugged and opened the sealed flap.

 _It is with a shattered heart that I write you_

His preternaturally green eyes leapt of their own accord to the bottom of the tersely-worded letter before he had even begun reading the body.

 _Willow passed away suddenly five weeks ago_

Dan.

It was from Dan.

 _giving birth to our son Van_

The sun was gone, hidden below the western horizon; ahead of him, to the east, the first sprinkling of stars was emerging.

His breath was gone, too, his heart pounding, as his eyes flew over this handful of words marching gravely across the page.

 _All of the friendship and love you had given her meant so much to her_

"No," he whispered.

 _and to me, too_

"No," he said again, louder. All the air in the world had vanished. His fingertips tingled uncontrollably and his stomach churned.

 _I wish you could have been able to say goodbye_

"No!" Phoenix threw the letter savagely away from him. The cursed scrap of paper fluttered innocently to the ground, as though it did not contain the weight of a planet in the terrible words it contained. "No, no, no!" he screamed, falling from the bench, kneeling on the soft ground, clutching at his head and the unbearable knowledge now lodged permanently within it. "No!" He could not stop; the word tore from him in feral cries. His chest was collapsing in on itself like a dying star. "No, no, no!"

 _so sorry to tell you this_

"Red!" Áthas yelled breathlessly, sprinting from the house upon hearing Phoenix's distress. "Oh red heart, what is it? What's happened?"

 _There is nothing left for me now_

Áthas picked up the letter from where it lay serenely in the grass, several feet away from where Phoenix was bent over, clawing at his temples and shrieking.

 _and I don't know how to keep going when all I see is darkness._

She gasped, her hand flying to her mouth and tears springing to her eyes as she read the missive's short, grim contents.

 _Yours in sadness,  
_ _Maj. Dan Flyheight_

The letter fluttered to the ground once more.

Áthas squeezed her eyes shut, struggling in vain to seal away the tears crowding there, but they stubbornly leaked down her cheeks, anyway. She took a deep breath and crouched down beside her husband. His anguished screams had metamorphosed into long, animal wails as he sobbed with a visceral force she had never seen in him before. "Come now, love," she said softly, voice shaking, as she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Come now."

She remained there on the grass beside him for a very long time, her hand unmoving, maintaining contact, grounding him, as the moons rose and the stars began peeking out overhead and Phoenix gradually quieted.

When at last he turned his ashen, tear-stained face to her, the light that ordinarily danced so vividly in his emerald eyes was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter 2**_

Phoenix did not sleep well that night, nor for many nights thereafter. As the moons soared painfully slowly across the sky, Áthas kept a worried vigil over her husband, choking back tears as she watched him flailing and whimpering in his sleep, calling out for his dear friend, reaching fruitlessly into empty space.

One bright morning, when he awoke for perhaps the dozenth time bleary-eyed and confused, visibly addled with grief, she could hold her peace no longer.

"You need to write back to him," she said without preamble as Phoenix dazedly attempted to prop himself up on one elbow. She stroked his flaming orange locks, nowadays just slightly speckled with gray, back from his forehead.

He paused and closed his eyes, savoring the gentle contact. Áthas had performed this exact motion countless times over the last fifteen or so years, but today, this time, it surfaced deep memories from even further back in his past. There had been a bombed-out atrium, a broken roof and velvet night above, rough blankets and a cold stone floor below, caring hands caressing his burned and blistered skin.

He opened his eyes again and looked at his wife, then nodded. "But there's someplace I need to go, first. Will you be alright if I take Fuzz for a few days?"

"Of course, red heart," she whispered. "Of course." She stroked his forehead again and he sighed, falling back into his pillows once more, gazing meditatively up at the ceiling.

-.-.-.-

Phoenix needed no guidance to orient himself towards their destination; although so much of the Elemia Desert was a sea of homogeneity, the wind and the stars and the map still extant in his mind after all this time steered Fuzzy's paws unerringly over the dunes.

It was his second day in the cockpit; both days he had set out at dawn, and now the sun was again setting. It seemed he had traveled halfway across Zi. The last time he had piloted Fuzzy for a trip spanning more than a few hours, to say nothing of two days, had been a few years prior, when he and Willow had held a little reunion for themselves in Athraigh Town, half a day's journey north of Socracht. He was furious with himself for not having worked harder to see her in the intervening time. For years she had been busy with her booming mechanical repair business and caring for young Maria, often juggling both sets of responsibilities alone for long periods while Dan was on yet another tour of duty; for his part, Phoenix had struggled to keep up with the bountiful harvests yielded one after another by the fruit farm he operated with Áthas and his brother. Spending a day or two or three away from home had become not just inconvenient for him and for Willow, but logistically difficult.

But not impossible.

He cursed himself, now, for allowing their relationship to have idled, for ever having taken her continued existence for granted. Countless times in his forty-four years, he had observed - or learned the hard way for himself - just how fragile everything in life was. Had he learned nothing from his parents' sudden and untimely deaths in the cataclysm? How could he have been so complacent, so foolish?

He looked down at Fuzzy's control stalk, comfortably familiar in his freckled hands, and realized with a start that she could be taken away from him, too, perhaps, even though they had been a team for over twenty-five years. After all, the Helcat technically still belonged to the Guylos Empire and was therefore stolen property, a contraband Zoid, and while he had not returned to his homeland since deserting the military and had no plans ever to do so, it was not completely unimaginable that someone, somehow, might come back for her someday.

Or, perhaps, it would not be Imperial forces reclaiming her, but an accident or the passage of time: Zoids had lifespans, too. Fuzzy, despite being of somewhat dated design in light of great technological advancements, was still operating well, but that would not be the case forever. Phoenix sighed, closing his eyes for a moment as tears welled in them. It was nearly impossible to fathom that Willow had been gone, for weeks even, and he hadn't known. He hadn't had so much as an unexplainable dream or an odd premonition; she was simply here on Zi one day and then gone the next, departed for who knew where, and all this time he had been living his life, blissfully unaware of the incomprehensible loss that had occurred in the little oasis a day's travel to the north.

"Thanks, Fuzz," Phoenix murmured to his Zoid.

Too well trained to even slightly break her swift and tireless stride, she mewed curiously in response.

"I don't want to go one more day taking anything I have for granted," he replied, his heart heavy. "I can't make that mistake ever again." He gave the console a little pat. "Thank you for everything you've done for me for so long, and for being my partner. You've been the best Zoid I ever could have asked for." He swiped at his eyes with one hand. "I'm so glad we met. I - I don't have words."

The rumble of Fuzzy's affectionate purr transmitted as a gentle vibration all over the cockpit.

-.-.-.-

Long before the shelled buildings and decrepit skyline heralded the end of his journey, there were the remains of the barracks, scarcely visible now amid years of accumulated sand drifts. Moreso even than these clues, however, Phoenix remembered the very particular sky out here; the memory of that terrifying day and night spent wandering the desert alone was still seared painfully into his psyche, where, he assumed, it would likely remain for the rest of his life. One never forgot such traumatic, near-death experiences; neither, however, would one forget the frail girl and her Command Wolf who had found him out beneath the night sky's black void, and brought him back to this place to heal.

Though he had been a stranger then to her, though she had had reason enough to forever fear strangers, she had gently nursed him back to health simply because that was the sort of person she was: kind, and almost infinitely brave. As Fuzzy now approached the northern end of Solas Base and its wide main street, the cottage that Willow had once called home came into view, and it was as if, any moment now, her precious lamp would be illuminated by some unseen hand, and spill its fearless light far out over the dunes, inviting him to sanctuary, to safety, to rest.

But the desert breezes whistled lonely around the derelict buildings as he climbed slowly out of Fuzzy's cockpit, and no light beckoned from the darkened cottage. Solas Base - no, Fort Zephyr - was empty now, as it probably continuously had been since the day Willow had departed from it two decades ago.

Two decades? Had he not been standing here mere hours ago as the sun had set, bidding her farewell as he prepared for his journey north, hoping against hope that their parting would not be for long?

Was time truly so mercurial?

Phoenix stood motionless at the end of the thoroughfare, listening to the wind's sad song. He wondered if some part of his dear friend remained here, then wondered if anything beautiful and alive could have remained here at all, the base was so alone and forsaken. Had he learned that he were the last living creature on Zi at this moment, he would have failed utterly to be surprised.

His heart felt like it was cracking open with the eternal memories of hot days and starlit nights spent in this place, and the deep grief for all that had been lost; there seemed to be no space remaining in his chest that raw, unbridled pain did not occupy.

"Nothing left here but the ghosts," he said quietly to Fuzzy, and then he covered his face with his hands and wept.

-.-.-.-

There was a knock at the door.

Dan was sitting on the couch, staring off into space and holding Van, who was sound asleep. But this time, there was no need for the caller to try again. Dan had heard the first attempt. He creakily stood, stepping past his desk, its multitudinous piles not quite tamed but certainly diminished in number, on his way to open the front door.

Light flooded into the room. Leon was standing there, holding a large box with an envelope attached to the top.

"Parcel came for you," he said.

 _Dear Dan,_

Dan stepped back, and Leon entered the main room, placing the box down on a table. He removed his hat, then smiled at the little waif who had appeared in the doorway to her dark bedroom. "Hello there, Maria," he said. "How are you doing today?"

 _I am so sorry for your loss and the pain you are going through_

"What's in the box?" Maria asked shyly, her huge brown eyes regarding the package curiously.

"Why don't we find out, then?" Leon replied, and he took the slumbering Van from his friend's arms.

 _You are not alone in your grief_

Dan used his pocketknife to tear through the tape.

 _This once gave Willow hope. May it do the same for you,_

He lifted an elegant, antique oil lamp out of the box.

 _for you are never without her light._

Silence reigned, and tears of gratitude slid down Dan's cheeks as he gazed breathlessly, reverently, at this precious relic from Willow's past.

 _Your friend always,  
_ _Phoenix_


End file.
